if someone asked me to compose a list
of things that make me want to breathe,
i’d seal my lips shut and point my finger
at you.
(i’d say that you’re my pen and
paper.)
i could name so many things,
could name iced coffees; or the way snow looks
when no one’s stepped on it yet.
i could name canals and kisses on cheeks,
melted chocolate and freshly mowed grass,
sleepy good mornings and whispered good nights.
but if someone asked me to compose a list,
i’d point in your direction, say:
“if you really want to know.
(what drains the fear from my bones,
puts colour back where it is)
if you really want to know; it’s her.”
because i don’t always appreciate
sunsets and sometimes
i prefer my world in black and white
but if anyone could, it’s you --
(you’re the rope that pulls me out of the sand,
when the ground swallows me up, your hand
will pull me back into my own head)
so if someone asked me to compose a list,
i’d accept the pen and just write down your name
because you manage to fix me
every day.
(because you feel like home to me.)
